A Particular Question
by KitCat Italica
Summary: Sequel to Mind Your Surroundings. Joker resorts to drastic measures, all for the answer to a simple question he has for Batman. B/J slash


A Particular Question

**A/N: Yes, the dream sequence is from another movie. But I can't help it with this scene, it's too preciously perfect. I don't own that movie, no matter how much I wish I did. See if you can guess what it is. :D**

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Bruce stared at the monitors around him. Power plant footage stared back at him, moving left and right from hidden security cameras, observing the third criminal heist on the place in two weeks with a dull objectivity. All portraying different angles, analyzing one aspect or the other, trying to identify the blurs of people, and what was stolen. If they worked for the mob, or a gang, or a rival corporation, or one of the several costumed superpowers the city had collected over the years.

It was close to three in the morning, and Alfred was asleep by now. Bruce, as much the insomniac as ever, sat in his armor, with his mask lying on the table to one side. His eyes were fixed on the screen directly in front of him that played the same five seconds of fleeing thieves on loop. But it was clear he wasn't watching the video at all.

The last eight months were all he saw in his mind's eye. The two months of grueling recovery, followed by six more of attempting to pick up the broken pieces of his city that had teetered on the brink of falling to crime-lorded anarchy in his absence.

It had been the worst September and October of his life last year. Because of the pain, obviously; but more than that, because he wasn't out in his city doing what his mind and his very spirit positively _urged_ him to do. He had felt a lost child, crying out to his mother, just out of his sights. And it had frustrated him to no end.

Finally he had made a comeback, sure to terrify his foes like never before with his unpredictable and powerful return. None of them noticed the ever so slight change in gait, the subtly and barely-pronounced limp he was now forced into. No one had noticed, save for two people. Alfred, who obviously knew the reason for it, and had watched over him day and night for those cruel two months. And…

…him.

The only other person who knew.

But somehow, Bruce had a feeling that even if the story he had told Alfred was true – which left out any mention of the clown's involvement and recounted him getting _himself_ out of his mess – the Joker would still have noticed something was different about him.

It seemed he always did.

Why, at times, it even seemed as if the Joker knew about…

Bruce closed his eyes at the train of thoughts that followed. As much as he wished it weren't true, that _none_ of it were true, and that the chain of events that last Valentine's Day had set in motion had never happened, he had found that his mind last September and October had been filled with very little else besides what he couldn't bury anymore.

Especially the dreams.

He'd had raging nightmares about the Joker before any of this had ever occurred, but other musings had crept up on him occasionally after the events of February, and even more so in March. But ever since the night at the pier…there was nothing else.

Sometimes it was violent, as any such fantasy should be when concerning the two extreme lives they led. But what he couldn't stand beyond anything else was what October had brought him. It was a softness, at times almost platonic in a sense, that he knew could never exist outside the realm of his dreams. Soon it didn't even have to concern sex – it spiraled into just talking, sitting in silence, or simply _being_ there. But always fleeting on the edge were those harbored violent tendencies they both shared, that would never leave them alone.

But the worst was November. When he had first encountered him again, and had seen him in the flesh for the first time since the night at the pier. He had both craved and dreaded the inevitability of running into him again, especially with the prospects of what he would be greeted with. And what he _had_ been greeted with was…

…nothing.

Nothing out of the ordinary. No jests or wisecracks about their three interactions of questionable nature, no laced innuendos or veiled passes at him. It was as if those three nights – especially the most recent – had never happened at all.

And that was what had driven him over the edge.

They had both seemed so furious, so _enraged_ in their fight, trying as always to just simply hurt the other as much as possible, the outcome irrelevant. For all their inner pain, they had to ensure that the other felt just as much externally to justify it. And all the while he had been searching for a sign, a remark, _anything_ to end this horrid tension as to how the killer was to use the events of his undoing to his advantage, and pour salt on his wounds as he always did.

But then, in the midst of it all, their eyes had found each other for a fleeting second. And what they had found there was enough to stop them in their tracks for nearly three seconds more, a feat normally deemed impossible under the weight of the drive that consumed them both when battling the other.

It was that bitter-edged resentment. The accusing glare. The _hurt_. They found it reflected in each other's eyes, mirroring what they had been searching for. And they were both utterly repulsed by the expression on the face they stared at.

They had dealt even fiercer blows at each other after that, in wild screams of rage. For it meant that neither one had forgotten, or ever could truly forget. It meant that the three nights had indeed occurred, and would live on in their souls ever afterward. It had also meant that Joker did indeed know Batman's true identity, and the fact that he had taken an exception to utilizing knowledge about his opponent, and wasn't yet doing anything with the information, was what had finally pushed Batman to break the clown's nose full-out with a staggeringly brutal fist, knocking him out cold.

Arkham did nothing to contain him. The police could never hope to keep up with him. And now he knew the most sought-after secret of the dark knight, the one person who could stand a chance at opposing him.

But still he didn't press it to his advantage.

As Bruce stared out across the expanse of his memory, the monitors in front of him serving no purpose whatsoever, he tried once again to tell himself that the Joker wanted to keep Bruce Wayne a secret to laugh to himself at, and that he was genuinely disappointed that his mightiest adversary was in fact the pitiful playboy. It was to mess with his head as always. It wasn't to possess him in full, nor was it due to what his soul was desperately trying to make him see for himself…

_You complete me._

He held his face in his hand. The words never would leave him alone, but their true meanings were now stubbornly worming through his mind every second of the day.

_What would I do without you?_

That had to be why – the clown falsely believed that his existence centered around him. And it was a _false_ belief, it had to be, and it certainly did not hold true vice-versa.

_Aren't you gonna kiss me?_

His body was drooping under the weight of the words that engulfed his subconscious, but he was becoming quite unaware of his slump forward as exhaustion took him over.

_Go home._

_I think you and I are destined…_

_You just couldn't let me go, could you?_

_Go to sleep._

"I am asleep," he said dumbly. But after a second's consideration, he found the fact that he had inexplicably uttered to be true. He wasn't quite sure how he knew, but then again, things rarely made sense in dreams.

At least, he wished they didn't.

He realized that he hadn't yet opened his eyes, and subsequently noticed that they had been closed the whole time to begin with. A faint rustling sound around him made him think of autumn leaves, and a sudden fluttering near his face did indeed support that theory. A light breeze caressed his face then, and while he couldn't feel it through the armor he still wore, it seemed to soothe him considerably. Sparse rays of sunlight were producing yellow-orange spots of near-awareness of light on the backs of his eyelids, but it was not at all unpleasant. He supposed that, for once, his mind could allow him an agreeable setting in a dream.

He contentedly opened his eyes, and his thoughts of autumn were confirmed as golden-brown and honey-red leaves floated aimlessly overhead, amid the arching beams of some sort of gazebo structure he was laying in. As for what he was laying in, it then came to his attention that he was supported by the silken comfort of an ornate bench, but set up to seem a sort of bed to lounge in, or take a swift nap in. Perhaps that was what he had been doing in this dream prior to waking.

But what drew his attention most was the still form of the Joker in his signature suit, sitting on the edge of his makeshift bed, one hand resting intimately on an armored knee as he considered the other in a curious yet knowing silence. His demeanor seemed to indicate that he had been watching the sleeping man for hours in this same stance, relaxed and calm. It faintly surprised Bruce at just how…peaceful he seemed. His flamboyant style of dress and the fact that he was the only other human being in sight were the only factors that made him stand out from the serene environment created for the dream. No death or malice surrounded his figure.

Which could only mean one thing.

"This is a dream," Bruce stated lazily to the Joker, as if expecting him to snap his head around him wildly with boggling eyes before shifting the location to a rooftop brawl and proceeding to fight him as usual. But he did no such thing, simply revealed a light in his eyes as if he was already aware of that fact, and that this particular version of himself existed nowhere but in the world of Bruce's dreams. He then leaned forward, the hand on Bruce's knee following him, up his thigh, past the outside of his hip, across his chest to finally rest at his clavicle. His face hovered an inch from Bruce's.

The light in his eyes then spread to his grin as a small smile crept onto his lips. "Then it's a good dream, isn't it?" he softly pointed out.

Bruce met the Joker's smile with one of his own, resigning himself to the fact that it might as well be an enjoyable dream, and when Joker gently brought their lips together he responded in kind, bringing his hand to stroke through the tangled green locks as they kissed quietly.

Joker gradually drew an inch away after a time, pleased to see Bruce's eyes still closed in contentment, knowing that the bloom of pleasurable heat had indeed worked its magic upon his usually-worried mind. He grinned wider. "Sleep," he breathed, and pressed his lips for a lingering second to Bruce's nose, before climbing off the bed.

Bruce was floating. There was nothing quite like what he was experiencing right now. He had just kissed the Joker, and there was nothing bad to be said of it. It had been broken of their own volition, not because of approaching sirens or urgent calls of duty. And thus there was no guilt to accompany it. There were no promises made that were broken. Instead, they were a thousand times reinforced. A strengthening of a bond that in reality they both wished beyond anything they could possess. But it seemed that, apparently, in _this_ dream world, they did.

He opened his eyes to wonder where the Joker had gone, and looking to his right he saw the man standing on the edge of the gazebo, one arm wrapped loosely around the nearest spire that held the roof of vines and leaves above their heads. His back was to Bruce, and his coat and hair rippled in the breeze. It was then Bruce noticed what he was looking out at: far below them, off in the distance, was Gotham City, silent and barely visible.

Their protective haven of sorts was far beyond the home they were chained to in their waking moments, and it was this fact that drew a shadow of longing from Bruce's chest. He in part longed for his city, but more so he longed for this place – this beautiful, sheltered jewel of a place – to exist outside his mind. For this life he was now briefly immersed in to be _real_, and for all thoughts of chaos and justice and crime fighting and massacre to simply fade away. But it was a part of who they were, and the city below them proved it, unable to leave his mind even in such perfect fantasies as this. He then realized what Joker was doing: he stood like a sentinel, relaxed yet rigid, watching the city. Guarding Bruce from its influence while he slept.

He then fixed his eyes upon the Joker. "You told me once…" he said, his voice edged with dejection. Upon hearing his voice, Joker turned slightly to meet his eyes, still with their knowing edge.

"…this day would come."

_Isn't the hero supposed to kiss said helpless soul as they ride off into the sunset together? _whispered the shadows.

But Joker heard his true meaning: _this day can never be._ But after a time, he replied, "This isn't the end for you, Bruce." It nearly caught Bruce off-guard upon hearing that rusty voice say his name, having never heard it spoken from that mouth before in real life. "It's just…the beginning of something more." Pausing, he smirked half-heartedly and raised his eyebrows to gesture to the armor that Bruce still clearly wore. "You're still the caped crusader," he said, and flashed his eyes to his own suit, "and I'm still the Clown Prince of Crime. Nothing's ever going to change that." And his tone of voice, while reassuring, clearly indicated that the Joker wouldn't have it any other way.

Bruce sighed and looked to the tiled floor of their hidden refuge, knowing that, in truth, their unwillingness to change their natures _was_ the whole problem. As much as they wanted this, what they desired each other for was what stood in the way of this happiness.

Because they fought, they wanted each other. But because they fought, they could never have each other.

Joker's next statement cut through his thoughts with a determined finality that almost scared him. "This _is_ the path you were meant to walk."

Bruce considered such a proclamation of a severely desperate hope, then at length rose from the bed himself and slowly walked over to stand close beside Joker. Joker's eyes never left him, but neither did he say anything further, simply watched his knight deep in thought. Bruce gazed out over the glades of turning foliage around and below them, straying to the city that haunted them both, and stood in a troubled silence. Joker didn't coax him into speaking, which proved even further that this was a dream, for he seemed almost in the role of a supportive spouse, or even a brother, waiting for the one he cared about to continue when ready.

"My path is hidden from me," Bruce finally said into the stillness. He knew that the city called him, for he was still in armor, wasn't he? But that directly contradicted why he wanted, no, _needed_ to remain hidden here, in this sanctuary with the Joker who surely felt the same call, if not for the same reasons. Both desires raged through his mind in a battle of their own, for the moment taking the place of the battle usually waged more externally between him and the man beside him.

"You don't have to choose what you're meant to do," Joker said quietly. "It's already written. Just trust that what you _choose_ to do is what was _meant_ to be."

Once again, Joker was speaking of their destiny, and that whatever was going to happen between them, they were meant for it for the rest of their lives. But within their bond, Bruce knew there was something else that he had been fighting against accepting for well over a year, to the point that he wasn't even sure what he wanted anymore.

He closed his eyes. "I don't know what to trust," he admitted. Joker watched his face closely. Bruce opened his mouth to speak again, but a hand covered in purple leather pressed to his lips before he had the chance. He brought his eyes to the clown's that held such a warm light in their jade depths, yet such an iron assuredness that he could barely handle it without the gentle touch on his mouth.

"If you really don't know what to trust," Joker whispered, as he brought his hand down to rest above the insignia of the bat on Bruce's chest, right above his heart, "…trust this." The touch pressed to him so warmly sent tremors of heat through Bruce's heartbeat.

"Trust _us_."

He clasped the purple gloved hand with his own black one, feeling the echoes of truth radiate from the touch. Slowly he met the Joker in a solemn kiss, and the world of autumn leaves around them ceased to matter. All that mattered was this moment of the Joker's tongue entwining languid yet sure with his own, and they shifted their arms to wrap around the other, pressed together in sacred communion as close as they could get, to the end of time.

He jolted awake at the blaring news feed; upon falling to rest on the console, he had inadvertently jarred its volume controls. He was quite disoriented for a while, for the Joker had been kissing him just a second ago, he hadn't been speaking…

…wait…

…he was awake right now. He was back in reality.

And _the Joker was speaking_.

He immediately honed his focus upon the screen to the far left that was left permanently on GCN, ready at all times to report breaking news that needed his attention. Breaking news such as this, where the Joker had once again sent a video to the media.

"…as you all know, the Batman has refused to cooperate with my intentions for quite some time," the terrorist continued, grinning wickedly in all his twisted splendor, at the camera that he obviously held himself. At his word choice of "intentions," Bruce's heart beat feverishly in dread. At long last, the moment had come to launch insinuating thorns into his mind about their unforeseen displays of…whatever it was.

"But…I'm afraid the time has come for him to come clean. So, Batman, time to man up and face the music! No, this doesn't concern the rest of you lovely people of Gotham, just me, myself, and the Bat. I have a particular question for him, and I'm sure everyone's just _dying _ to know the answer. Of course, Bats, you'll _know_ where to find me, just like the first time.

"Oh," he was suddenly struck by a last "forgotten" detail of his plan, "and just in case you decide to…be a _no-show_, I brought a little _insurance_ with me. Can't be too careful!" And with that he descended into his cackles, and the camera blurred with a silvery-gray before switching off.

Mike Engel still continued to commentate on the video after it ended, but his remarks were lost to Bruce's awareness. His mind was shut down. He lurched for the video controls and rewound the clip, then played it again, finally pausing at the final two seconds before the video had ended. To the flash of silvery-gray.

It couldn't be…

No, he _hadn't_…

…_Alfred_…

He knew that the still frame before his eyes could offer no other explanation, and that if he were to waste precious seconds searching the entirety of the manor that Alfred would be nowhere to be found. He couldn't afford to second-guess himself when what he suspected held even the slightest possibility of truth. Nor could he afford to second-guess where Joker was waiting for him.

_Just like the first time._ That had been what he had said. The madman hid his clues well, just as well as the detective could deduce them.

Most would assume the clue to mean the first time he had conjured the Joker's location out of thin air, with the now-famous siege at the Prewitt Building. The cops would start their search there, and would then perhaps start back to the first alley that the Joker had been reported to have killed in, with the armed robbery and double-homicide – the first of Joker's crimes that Batman had investigated.

But Bruce knew what Joker was really referring to.

His feet flying ahead of him in a desperation the likes of which he hadn't felt since racing down the road to Avenue X at Cicero, he slid his cowl back over his head and took off in the Tumbler, to the half-reconstructed structure of the apartment complex that had burned down last year on Valentine's Day.

xxx

When he finally arrived there, the apartment complex was still in shambles, barely held intact by the steel support beams surrounding it. It was indeed a miracle that it was still defying gravity at all. This only served to set Batman even more on edge, for if the Joker was holding Alfred in there as he suspected, there might only be a few minutes to get them all out of there before the structure collapsed upon their heads. With this in mind, he swiftly parked the Tumbler several yards away and made for the spindly remains of what had once been an impressive housing center.

He raced around the various layers, unknowing which turn would reveal whom he searched for, until at last on the fifth level he came face-to-face with the murderous wretch, whose eyes absolutely _gleamed_ at the detective's approach.

And whose hand held a particular carving knife to Alfred Pennyworth's throat.

A flurry of rage and pain rose in Batman's chest at the sadistic twist of irony the sight produced, yet chose wisely not to act just yet, but instead slowed to a halt wordlessly ten feet away from the two others. One false move here and he was sure to get Alfred killed. Which was a possibility he was _not_ going to allow.

He couldn't.

Alfred's eyes also took note of his approach, but said nothing. He didn't need to – his eyes already pierced arrows of silent _I told you so_'s through Bruce's heart. Which gave Bruce all the more incentive to end this situation, and do everything in his power to ensure that his butler could say a thousand _I told you so_'s out loud to him back at home.

"Was wondering when you'd make it up here," Joker drawled out with a mocking leer. "I was getting a bit…_impatient_." The knife jerked ever closer to Alfred's throat.

"Now that I'm here, you can let him go," Batman pointed out, trying to keep any traces of desperation out of his tone of voice. It was his fault and his own stupidity that had gotten Alfred into this mess, and there was no sense in bringing him into this death match between him and the Joker.

But apparently, the Joker was not of the same opinion, and barked a laugh at the command. "I don't think you get how this works. If I let him go now, there's nothing to keep you here to answer my…question."

"If you let him go, I'll answer your question, Joker," Batman insisted. _Please just let Alfred go, please…_

Joker rolled his eyes; they could be at this all night with this back-and-forth logic. And that wouldn't get him any closer to an answer. So to prove his point, he let a few drops of blood spill out of Alfred's neck, much to Batman's dismay.

"And what gives you the idea that I'd _believe_ you would do that?" he hissed.

Batman's eyes had been locked on Alfred's, but at the clown's words he fixed him with a stare that nearly shocked Joker off his feet. Their minds flashed back in unison to the night at the pier in September, involving the same carving knife that was now pressed to a victim's throat.

"I owe you at least that," Batman answered quietly.

Alfred was quite confused, but flicked his eyes to the Joker, whose green gaze was riveted on Bruce's. If it had been any other person in the world that was holding him hostage like this, he would have taken the opportunity of broken concentration to break free. But one could never be too careful around a knife-wielding Joker.

Then the miraculous happened.

The Joker let a hostage go.

Alfred walked over to Bruce, panting but alive. And so was Bruce, which were two blessings he'd been thankful for the past several years every night of his life. But Bruce's eyes still hadn't moved from Joker's, and it quite intimidated the butler as to what his employer had meant by _owing_ the Joker an answer, or owing him anything at all, really. Debts were not accumulated to men that took people hostage to draw someone's attention, or killed for their own enjoyment. An explanation was in order.

"I suppose we were leaving now?" he quietly intoned at Bruce's ear, which snapped him out of the absorbing eye contact he was lost to.

"Go back home in the Tumbler. I'll catch up soon," he said. Although Alfred's warning glance back at him clearly told him that he didn't _need_ to remain behind to deal with whatever insane question the lunatic had in store for him, he was firm in his resolution to stay and do just that.

Alfred couldn't understand. And it was best he got himself out of harm's way as soon as possible.

Cautiously, and with one last look at Bruce, Alfred turned to leave. Bruce watched him go, trying as quickly as possible to mentally prepare himself for whatever mind game the Joker most assuredly had planned. For some reason – whether it was unknown or, more likely, he just didn't want to admit it to himself – he wasn't going to leave this business with the Joker unsettled. Not when he had just displayed to him what he was now capable of to get leverage over Bruce. His identity was now able to be exploited by this madman, and there would have to be all sorts of security measures taken now to ensure that Alfred, Lucius, Reese, and everyone else he was tied to weren't put in danger either...

"…are you in love with me?"

Alfred stopped in his tracks.

Bruce's heart froze.

And the Joker held his breath after asking his question, the one simple question he had threatened to kill for in the name of its answer.

Alfred turned, sure that behind him would reveal explosions of balloons and flower petals, and reinforce the fact that this _had_ to be a horrid dream. But all he was faced with was the immovable forms of two men, one of whom stared holes through the other's caped back, scarcely daring to breathe while an emotion incongruous to the monster he was lined his face.

But he wasn't sure if the Joker's appearance was what startled him the most, or if it was Bruce's lack of movement. His eyes were frozen wide in his cowl, and stared laser-bright ahead at nothing.

…_why wasn't Bruce moving?_

At that moment, shots and yells rang out through the air, unheeded by the three suspended in a state of panic, until the cops burst in and tackled the Joker from behind, knocking him to the ground. Gordon raced up and proceeded to handcuff him, relieved they had finally traced the lunatic to where the clue had led him. _The first time_: the first place he had made an appearance after his last escape from Arkham, which was well over a year ago. But he was long overdue for a permanent stay there, if the authorities had anything to say about it.

During the scuffle and confusion, Batman had finally managed to swim through his thoughts enough to turn around and face the Joker. And when he saw that he was being apprehended by the cops, he couldn't move any longer. Let alone think coherently.

All that flashed through his mind was the searing glare the Joker gave him before he was dragged away outside the building, and loaded in a SWAT van to be taken to Arkham once more.

xxx

Joker winced once before opening his eyes, knowing from the familiar feel of straightjacket, bed restraints, and pricks on his elbow crease that he was back in Arkham. How long he had been passed out he had no idea – the shrinks at the institute seemed fond of keeping him in a state of near-catatonia, after their attempts at "rehabilitating" him through psychotherapy had ended in nothing but more death and mayhem during his multiple escapes involving mass carnage.

But this time was strange: usually whenever his superior body chemistry finally riddled out the way to beat the drugs and revived him from his chemically-induced comas, there were still some aftereffects of lightheaded fuzziness. After experiencing that side-effect several times, it had suddenly struck him what that was: that was how _normal_ people experienced the world. It repulsed him to think that everyone was content to live in such dull, slowed senses, with such low-functioning brains and decreased sense of awareness. Yet another reason to revel in the jubilant fact of being the special person he was, with higher levels of sanity than anyone else could ever hope to possess, and powers of intellect and perception that no one else could ever even _dream_ of.

And curiously, that same crystal-clear awareness that he usually experienced was what was running through him now. Which was usually reserved for later, a bit of time before or after he escaped the madhouse. It seemed to come and go in relation to his proximity to the outside world of the city. Hmm, wonder how _that_ works…

But why was it back so soon now? Maybe his body was getting used to their drug cocktails, as the resilient parasite of a virus he really was to them, and they'd have to boost things up a bit to put down his fire ant mound of a mind again. Or maybe…

…it was then he noticed that the IV usually still attached in his arm was hanging loose beside him, unplugged from his veins prematurely.

Interesting.

Well, at least it made matters much easier: it was child's play for him to wriggle out of the straightjacket, then lace his limbs and body out of the binds that strapped him to his urine-smelling cot.

Free at last, he crawled up off the floor and stood by his door, listening for any approaching footsteps, and hearing none, entered into the grossly-white hallway. His face itched, longing for its paint again, but he'd find it soon enough once he'd reached his first destination. No sense returning to his beloved Gotham in this red-orange jumpsuit; he had appearances to keep up, and with luck the asylum still held onto his personal effects in the storage rooms on the second floor.

Rounding corners he'd long since memorized even before he'd first been incarcerated, it was quite miraculous he didn't run into any employees. It seemed luck was on his side today. Or tonight. Whichever.

He entered the storage room, and he could scarcely believe just _how_ lucky this hour was turning out to be. He had escaped his cell in record time, hadn't run into anyone else, and there was his suit, folded up neatly on a table with all his knives still in their proper places in the many pockets. As he proceeded to dress into his trademark attire quicker than he ever had before, he reflected once again upon the fact that he was the luckiest clown in the world.

But…his suit had been…_folded?_

And his IV had been conveniently detached…

…something was up.

Well, if it was indeed a trap he was being led into, he was by all means ready for it, even _thrilled_ by the possibility. He liked a challenge directly after escaping, for it proved beyond any doubt that he was indeed _alive_ and ready for action once again. It pleased him to no end to consider that someone was doing this favor for him, instead of having to conjure up some scheme to grab the Bat's attention again, like that burning apartment complex last year…

…he paused in pulling on his gloves.

The Batman…and the apartment complex…

_The Bat hadn't answered his question._

He needed to get his makeup back on. Then he could sneak out of the place, outwit whoever it was that had set up his escape, and then come up with another way to toy with his darling Brucey's head. For he was sure that whenever they met next, Batman wouldn't forget what he'd asked him, and it would just make him more enraged in their fights. Good to have something to rile up the knight, and make him all the more worthy of an opponent.

Even if his answer was…

He pulled out his makeup tubes from his jacket pockets before pulling it on, and set to work at putting on his true face once more. The cool, pasty feel of the greasepaint upon his face felt so wonderfully familiar, and his mind buzzed a mile a minute during the automatic ritual. He only paused ever so slightly at his mouth, resting rubied fingers softly against the slight scar on his lower lip as his eyes closed for a brief instant, before finishing the job and returning the paint tubes to his pockets.

He then pulled his jacket on to complete his ensemble, still mapping out his route to steal a few more cans of green hair dye, when something fluttered out of one of the coat pockets and clattered onto the floor.

Looking down, he was momentarily surprised, for it wasn't an object that he remembered collecting to keep on his person at all times, as were the other assortment of knives, paints, and cards that lined his pockets. He stooped and picked it up, eyeing it curiously.

It was a hotel keycard, fine yet nondescript. And on the back was a simple sticky note, written with plain and unrecognizable handwriting: 1254.

His mouth slowly twisted into a sly grin. For it had come to his attention exactly which billionaire philanthropist owned that particular five-star hotel.

It seemed he wouldn't have to wait to engage his Bat after all.

* * *

**A/N: Well, there you have Part 4, in all its snot and phlegm infected glory, as I hammered it out yesterday and today while hacking my lungs out of a sore throat. :( Whether me being sick contributes to work quality in a positive or negative way I'm not entirely sure, but hey…I wrote "Lessons" while sick. ;) And I'm assuming that if you've read this, you've also read the previous installments (otherwise the references to the nights at the apartment complex, MCU, and pier won't make much sense), so you must remember my promise at the end of MYS of what the final installment will contain. I intend to keep that promise. Just fyi. :D**


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